


Harry (11)

by orphan_account



Series: failure by design [The Watson Vignettes] [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Child Abuse, Domestic Violence, Drama, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Harry-centric, Kid John, Misogyny, POV Second Person, Protective Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2018-03-18 08:50:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3563561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry (11): "Grandma's house doesn't smell like cookies anymore."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Harry (11)

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the warning(s). Thank you.
> 
> As a side-note: I've thought long and hard about whether or not I was really going to but them both in a setting that involves domestic violence, particularly against their mother and, at last, Harry herself. A friend who read over this told me it might come across as 'abused girl turns lesbian and hates men forever' but this is not what it is.
> 
> After reading a number of Sherlock fics involving Harry, my own headcanon ran wild and built this entire universe around the Watson family, and in particular the Harry & John sibling relationship. I tried to make sense of what was going on in canon--the distance, John still rushing off to help her in the middle of the night even if it leaves him emotionally drained, Harry not appearing at John's wedding, and most of all, John's trust issues, and, "Why is everything always my fault?"
> 
> I really liked HLV for the glimpse we got into John's character. Particulary because of the "Why is everything always my fault?" It made me consider (what I perceive as) John's need to be needed, his caretaker-tendencies, him keeping Harry's phone even if their relationship is difficult, his 'trust' issues etc. And I saw this all rolling out in front of me, and from John's character I spun Harry's, then their backstory, and, yes, a setting with domestic violence particularly against women seemed important to the story--because it's important for my build-up of Harry's character.
> 
> Anyway, rant over.

Harry (11)

 

Grandma’s house doesn’t smell like cookies anymore.

You’ve always liked it here. It always did smell of cookies, and in winter nights of hot chocolate. The winter mornings tasted of clotted cream. John and you always fought over who would get more of it. Grandma’s house smells of Brussel sprouts, now. And the blanket of our sofa, the one everyone always sits on and nobody ever washes. You don’t think you like it here, anymore, which is good, because you won’t be coming back anyway. John and you won’t fight over clotted cream again.

The only good thing about it is that father was gone for the last days arranging the funeral.

“Harriet, will you _please_ take care,” mum is scolding you. Her hands are wet from doing the washing-up. “Look at your dress!”

You look down at yourself. Your black dress is stained with suds of the washing up liquid and dirt from the dishes all over the front. You bite your lip to keep from grinning. You hate the stupid thing. Father isn’t here. You want to run outside with John and the other boys and get it dirty in the wet grass.

Not that John will get his suit dirty, anyway. The thought makes you pull a face.

“Mum, can’t I just go outside to play?”

“Not until you’re not done here,” she says, shaking her head. You stick out your tongue at her when she turns.

“ _John_ is outside,” you mutter resentfully and put the next plate too hard on the table. “He’s playing.”

John is eight now. You had to do the dishes when you were eight.

“He’s a boy,” mum says. “You’re a girl, of course you have to help me with the washing up.”

You _hate_ this.

“But why?” Your voice is high now, loud. You’re demanding. It’s okay with mum. “It doesn’t even make _sense_!”

“Because I’m telling you to,” mum says, but she’s smiling slightly when she whacks you upside the head with the towel. “Now quit whingeing and go on.”

She’s wearing a black dress, like you. You both wear long sleeves. It looks right on her, but it feels wrong on you. You don’t know why. On mum’s front, a necklace with a silver cross glints in the kitchen light. She doesn’t wear it often, and it makes you think of church Sundays. You used to go regularly, but you don’t, anymore. You think father didn’t like the way everyone was looking at him or mum. When they started looking at you too, you stopped going. John and you are both sad about it. You liked being out of the house, and John misses the church. He likes the music and the stories. You think you both liked it best when you went with grandma.

“Harriet, stop daydreaming,” mum says. “The dishes won’t—”

Loud steps from the hallway interrupt her. They’re heavy, fast, coming towards the kitchen. You know them. You echo them. Your chest goes heavy, your heart fast. You feel like your hands are gripping your throat, but you see them hold a plate. The skin above your upper lip and your palms begins to sweat.

“Go,” mum whispers, hurriedly. She’s white. Her hands are on your shoulders, urging you towards the back door. “Go, go to John—”

There’s so much sweat on your hands that the plate slips from your fingers. It breaks at your feet. You both flinch away from it.

Father’s here.

He’s not touching you, but he hurts you anyway. His eyes are red, like his face. His hands are large. He is tall. He’s standing in the doorway. He’s angry.

He’s not touching you yet, but he hurts you anyway, inside.

And then he hurts you outside.

“No, no, no, it was me,” mum is saying, over and over. “It was me, let her go, it was _me_ —”

Father isn’t listening. He says, “Whore,” and it sounds like a roar. He strikes her hard and she falls back, hits her head on the table-edge.

You begin to cry, but it’s quiet. If you’re loud it’s worse. Your hands are fists too, by your side. You keep them there. If you try to defend yourself it’s worse.

He is tall, and his hands as fists are large. They’re on your arms, your legs, your stomach. Places no one can see. Your dress is long, with long sleeves. He is spitting, “Good-for-nothing,” and “Can’t even do the fucking dishes,” and “What are you even here for!”

Your body hurts. It hurts so much. You’re crying, but it’s quiet. You’re not even saying “Please,” anymore. The last time you did he kicked you.

“Useless woman,” he says, and you are. He’s taller. His hands are large. Mum isn’t moving. You think it’d be nicer, if you couldn’t move. He’d stop then, if you weren’t moving. He hates you, and it hurts inside and outside. You like outside better because inside never stops hurting. Outside becomes numb, sometimes. He hates you. He’s hated you for a year. You don’t know if it’s because you’re a girl. You think if you were a boy he’d still hate you.

“Harriet!” comes from outside, a young voice. Excited. Happy. John. John, who comes barrelling towards the kitchen on his little feet. “Harry, Harry!”

“No,” you’re saying, your first word with father in the room. Your arms are weak and burn, but you lift them. Your hands grip your father’s wrist. It’s disgusting. “No, no, father, stop, no—”

He isn’t listening. He never is. He should.

Suddenly, in the doorway, John. His blue eyes are large, and he’s handsome in his suit. He sees your ceiling shadows in daylight. There is one more shadow now. Father never does this to him, never will. You’re so glad. He never does it when John is here, so John never sees. John. He’s too young. He shouldn’t see. He mustn’t see. He sees.

You’re crying harder, say, “No, no, no, _look away_ ,” your voice like trickling sand, and you’re a tower that falls, have leaned too much to the side.

You’re falling.

Your body must hurt, but you don’t feel much anymore. Father doesn’t let go. He stills, his hands on your neck. You’ll have to wear a scarf tomorrow, or they will see you’re blue and yellow. It’s not winter. This is also falling, but another kind. Father is looking at John. John, in the doorway, frozen and staring at you. As white as mum.

John, who could read with four, is stupid. He’s a stupid, stupid boy.

“Father,” he says, his voice trembling like so many leaves in the wind. “Father, please let her go.”

He’s small. He’s so small in the doorway, and so stupid, and so brave.

You don’t believe in God. You don’t like his commandments. The fourth says, _honour thy father and thy mother_ , but it doesn’t say _honour thy children_. You don’t like it. You don’t like God. But you’re praying.

_Please, don’t let John see mum, please, let him be safe—_

“Get out, boy,” father says roughly. He’s looking at John. He isn’t moving. His breath is on your hands, hot, branding. You’re still touching him, gripping his wrists. It’s useless. You’re useless. “Get the fuck out of here. You’ve seen nothing.”

“Let her go,” John says. “Please.”

John doesn’t cry. He hasn’t cried since he was seven. Somehow you remember that some leaves in autumn are so dry they break upon touch.

“No,” you say, and father says “No,” too, and he takes a step towards John with your throat in his hand, and he says, “I thought you weren’t as stupid as the other two,” and John doesn’t cry, and he doesn’t move, and he’s shaking, and he’s small, he’s so small in the doorway.

“Get out!” you yell, scratchy and breathless. “Get out, get out, _GET OUT_!”

Before you think about it you kick father in the stomach, and your yell becomes a scream, and John can’t listen to screams that don’t belong to shadows. He understands, and he flinches away, he steps back, he turns, he runs outside and leaves—

and father stills, he stills, he stills and he turns and he looks at you, and, he, oh, oh, God, oh God—oh— _God_ —

\---

John doesn’t kick your shin anymore.


End file.
